Geography of Childhood

Our street was made of dirt,
they called it red, but I remember orange,
afternoon thunderstorms drove muddy splashes
onto the light rough bricks of our house
the brick still carries the orange stains
even though the grass grows there now.

The great oak tree in the front yard was a wonderland,
large branches nearly touching the ground
beckoned to be explored.

The neighborhood children were my gang,
we small hide and seekers and kool-aid drinkers.
I smoked one of my Mother's cigarettes behind the shed,
all the gang looked on amazed, 
my badness was my strength in that crowd,
I never got caught - and they never tattled.

The chain link fences of the neighborhood
were like lines dividing countries,
in some there were pools, in others unmown grasses.
One neighbor never was seen by us little people,
we speculated he was an axe murderer, or worse.

The hot summers were never too hot for me,
I stayed outside until my name was cried out in the dusk;
owl hoots and bat squeaks
enriched the soundtrack of the evenings.

Weekends on the boat were common,
sailing along in the sun with the smell
of sunscreen in our noses,
ham sandwiches and orange soda in the ice box,
porpoise darting in  and out of the boat's wake like magic.

Our toes in the sand and our heads in the clouds,
the days moved past like a charm,
sun on our blond heads burning memories into our brains,
a jelly fish sting, a sunburn the only price we paid
for fun splashing in the waves or lazy days outside,
night time campfires ushered us off to sleep
under the stars of our happiness.